


The world is burning and we are the flames

by FactoryKat



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Custom Male Hawke (Dragon Age), M/M, Named Hawke (Dragon Age), Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Post-Dragon Age II, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FactoryKat/pseuds/FactoryKat
Summary: So what if I told you that in this world, Malcolm Hawke didn't die?
Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 15
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is subject to change.

"You are the peace I crave in this chaotic world."

His partner's voice echoing through his ears had taken on a far too somber quality, Hawke discerned, as he floated in and out of consciousness. The remnants of sleep continued to fade slowly, allowing him to awaken fully. Warm breath tickled his neck as the arm draped across his chest squeezed a little tighter.

"HmmAnders?" Wyatt murmured, drowsily, feeling his lips curve into a lazy smile once he became aware of the familiar weight against him. "Bit early to get all wax-poetic on me."

A chuckle bubbled up from Anders' throat and rumbled smoothly through both of them. "That was hardly poetic, and it's far past sun-up anyway."

Hawke turned his whole body just to brush his lips against his beloved's forehead and whisper into his hair. "Hush and let me sleep a little longer." His arms acted on their own, pulling Anders (who wheezed in response) tighter against his bare chest. Between muffled laughter and a squirming bed partner, there would be no more rest, but Wyatt maintained the ruse, keeping his eyes closed and his breathing even. However, a grin was impossible to fight back.

Anders ultimately wrestled himself free. "You can't possibly sleep all day," he mumbled between airy chuckles, a rare and joyful sound that filled the room with such warmth.

"Says you," Hawke snickered with eyes open finally and focused on his partner. "But I concede. I'm awake. You win." No longer fighting against it, he grinned like the fool he was as his arms extended out towards Anders, who leaned into the embrace voluntarily. Their lips met in a delicate kiss, soft and inviting for more. Or it would have if Anders hadn't pulled back after the first. 

With a loud, deliberate groan issued as a protest, Wyatt sat up finally but grudgingly.

"Oh, don't make that face. Come on. Up. You promised to help me in the infirmary today. Or have you conveniently forgotten?" Anders had already slipped away, leaving his side of the bed cold, and began dressing.

When his partner moved to pass him by, Hawke sat on the edge of the mattress and snatched the wiry blonde by the waist. He pulled Anders in, wanting to relish this morning, to steal more of these precious moments when all felt right with the world for once, and they were just two people, hopelessly in love as they crafted a little life together. "Mm, but I'd rather lay here all morning with you."

Any trace of tension in Anders's form melted away as he softened, balanced precariously on his lover's lap. "There's a lot of work to be done today… but I suppose if we're quick about it-" he mumbled, voice dropping into his chest as he rocked his body back just right.

_Fuck. Tease._

Hawke slipped his hands beneath the tunic hiding his partner's body from him. He eagerly traced the lines of the other mage's body before they came to rest on shapely hips. If there was one thing he greatly appreciated, it was Anders's surprising figure. For all the ways he was long and lean, there was shape and muscle, and - and this was only making it worse. "I'm sure I can make that work."

The rising static building up between them (both literally and figuratively) came to a head and to deny it at that point would have been torture.

-

Face flushed and wearing a ghost of a smile, Anders said nothing as he climbed into his tunic and laced up his trousers. He didn't need to say anything. His expression spoke loud enough. A swell of pride settled in Hawke's chest as he watched his partner's scurry about, shrugging on his coat and stepping into his boots. At some point, he must have realized he was being ogled and glanced over his shoulder. "While I appreciate the admiration, love, we do need to hurry-"

It was the unmistakable baying and barking of a hound carrying through the cottage which stole his voice. A shrill cawing that followed lured them out of the bedroom and briskly towards the source. Hawke spied the black corvid perched merrily on the sill of an open window, ignoring Ser Pounce-a-lot's hissing threats. The ginger tabby loomed close on the counter-top below, with his back arched and ears flattened against his head. 

"What is all this racket?"

Finn ceased his barking as Hawke emerged, resigning himself to a low growl, and Pounce swiped at the crow who still seemed hardly bothered by the other animals. 

"Pouncey, no!" Anders spat as he approached from behind. He scooped the cat into his arms, removing him from the vicinity just as the crow cawed and hopped down from the window onto the counter-top where Ser Pounce had only been. 

Hawke liberated the neatly folded square of parchment from the bird's clutches. "Huh. Must be an update from Carver, but I didn't expect him to write again so soon."

"Well, you can read it later, then."

But Anders had only taken three steps towards the front door of the cottage before Wyatt's shocked exclamation made him pause. "It's from Varric!" He turned the folded note over in his hands to reveal the name _'Wyatt Hawke'_ in a familiar, tidy script on the front.

Trepidation edged into Anders' voice that made Hawke's stomach tie itself into knots. "From Varric? What does he want?"

"I'm not sure. I haven't opened it yet…"

He slipped a finger underneath the wax seal that held it closed, and with minimal force, it gave way, allowing him to unfold the letter. His eyes poured over the page, taking in each carefully scrawled word. What he surmised just from a cursory glance that Varric had been recruited into this "Inquisition" a militarized force that, but for the lack of the Chantry's official backing, was very religious at its core. 

Skimming, a few things stood out: the breach - that giant gaping hole in the sky that no one could miss, and something else. It was a name. It was a name that had not crossed his mind since before the Chantry in Kirkwall fell.

"Corypheus…"

"What did you just say?" Anders practically crossed the room in a blur and freed the letter from his own trembling hands. 

Who was he to object? He let the man have it, to see for himself. Hell, he hadn't even finished the damnable thing, and already the heat coiled in his chest, and a chill rose to his palm, stinging his fingertips. 

"Hawke," Anders called to him, but he disregarded it, breaking into a pace with white-knuckle fists balled at his sides.

"Hawke-" he heard again but let it roll off his shoulders with no acknowledgment.

"Maker's sake, love, you need to read this!"

Something about the urgency in his lover's voice finally pierced the haze of anger and frustration building within his mind. "What? Read what?" But the letter had already been thrust back into his face, giving him no choice but to do just that. 

> _Listen, Hawke. About the Inquisitor - you'll want to be sitting down for this one. When he first showed up and said who he was, I thought it was a crazy coincidence. But then nothing with you is a complete coincidence, is it? He said his name was Malcolm. Malcolm Hawke._
> 
> _Yeah, shocked me too. But the more we talked, the more I believed him. Matches, I'm telling you, this guy is for real. Shit, he even looks like you. Your father's name was Malcolm, right? What did you say happened to him?_

He almost dropped the letter, almost stumbled into a chair, almost. Instead, he stood stock still with the parchment gripped too-tight in clenched fingers with eyes boring holes through the page. Finn's bulk against the back of his knees would have toppled him, were he not braced against the table in the center of the room. It succeeded in bringing Hawke around, however, and he let one arm fall to rest on the hound's solid back.

It was one thing for Corypheus to be still alive after Varric, Anders, Carver, and himself surely slew him in the Grey Warden prison years ago, but for this Inquisitor to possibly be his father - once thought deceased after going missing?

"Love…"

Wyatt lifted his eyes from the letter finally to meet Anders's troubled gaze, and mouth twisted into a fretful expression. "I have to go. I - have to see for myself."

"Then I'm coming with you." 

"No. It's far too dangerous." He barked sternly. He hated to argue, hated seeing the way his partner's honey eyes darkened, or the set of his sharp jaw. Softer now, "Oh Anders," Hawke tossed the letter aside and attempted to collect Anders into his arms. "What happened to you in that Warden prison, I can't and will not let that happen again."

But his lover resisted as the volume of his voice raised, and his tone hardened. "And I can't just sit here while you walk into what could easily be a trap!" 

Hawke opened his mouth to protest, to say anything in defense, but Anders carried on. "You know I trust you, but you can be so damned impulsive sometimes. Does this not sound all too convenient?"

With his brows furrowed and mood souring, Wyatt felt the frown cut through and twist his lips. "And you think that coming with me if it is a trap is somehow smart? Anders, they will arrest you on sight. Maker's sake, how is that at all wise?"

"They can't arrest what they can't see."

He balked in disbelief. "No offense love, but you're pretty distinct."

Anders sighed with a shake of his head, and Wyatt fixated on the pieces of blonde hair that had come free from their ponytail. "I meant that I'd stay out of sight. No one will even know I'm there, apart from you."

This was a terrible plan. Absolutely the worst. "And what about Justice?" He had to ask, even if it leads to an unpleasant conversation, he needed either reassurance or confirmation that his fears weren't unfounded. And they weren't. Wyatt saw Anders lower his eyes and turn his face away just enough. 

"He - _We_ will be fine. I promise. I can't stay behind because I could not promise I would be here when you returned. If you returned at all…"

At once, his throat tightened, heart leaped into his mouth, and the words stole the breath from his lungs. Hawke had always known this was a genuine possibility, that what he had with Anders - incredible as it maybe - was a careful balancing act of priorities, but to hear it spoken out loud was to give the notion form. To make it real.

His shoulders slumped in defeat. Fear, the uninvited guest, had already made itself home in his mind, but Wyatt was careful not to wear evidence of it on the outside. "Alright. We'll go together at first light. That gives us some time to plan."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even halfway to their intended destination, Anders and Hawke run into someone unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for how long this chapter took. Legit just didn't have the inspiration for it until recently. I'm also really bad about staying motivated with chapter fics, but here we are.

"- _att_ -"

…

" _...wyatt?"_

_…_

_"Wyatt!"_

_The hard bark unceremoniously yanked him back to reality. His name felt heavy, made sharp by his father's tongue, and the deep bass of his voice. Awake and wide-eyed, he blinked away the sands of sleep still clinging to him. Overhead, the moon glimmered hauntingly through the tall canopy, a pale circle still hanging on not yet read to give way to the morning sun. Yes, morning. He supposed that was right, though his stubborn nature meant that he refused to believe it until daylight cast through the trees instead._

_Malcolm sighed and swung the staff down to brace against it. "Son, are you even listening?" There was a disappointed frown on his father's face. He would have never noticed it until Mother pointed out that his smiles came less frequently these days._

_"Yeah, I'm listening."_

_The fire that had bloomed across his cheek was not born from any magic, but the bladed tip of his father's staff, a near-miss from their little sparring session. Something he had not paid much mind too until pulled out of his head, and the world caught up with him again. Wyatt pressed a hand to the shallow wound and frowned with frustration building in his chest. He hadn't seen his father approach or the way his face fell, not while checking for signs of bleeding._

_"Oh, Maker's nuts - I'm really sorry, kiddo. I ." Malcolm crouched in front of his young son, and gently wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic. "Well, what do you know, there might be a boy under all that mess after all!"_

_"Kiddo?" Wyatt quipped with a laugh on his lips as he sized up his father. "Pa, I'm 12 years old now. I'm too big for that, don't you think?"_

_"Nope! You'll always be kiddo to me. Now c' mere." His father snatched him up with arms made strong through years of hard work on the farm, and Wyatt laughed and laughed as he squirmed to no avail..._

* * *

"Eugh," Hawke groaned low in his throat and shielded his eyes from the sun's blazing rays beaming down upon his partially exposed face. The hood of his cloak still shaded the other half. Judging by how high the sun shone from the sky above, it was still reasonably early in the morning. With one squinting eye, he scanned the area surrounding him. Though difficult to tell as a thicket of trees whizzed past in a blur, nothing about it suggested they were close to the Frostbacks. Their transportation, a horse-drawn cart, shuddered as it hit every bump and rough patch of gravel and made it difficult to get much rest, but Wyatt was grateful for the ride and the bed of hay straw cushioning them against the rough wood.

When Hawke had no feeling in his right arm, only a vague tingling sensation, he glanced to the side and caught a glimpse of Anders, sound asleep, braced against his shoulder. For a few minutes, he considered himself the luckiest man in Thedas as he watched his partner's chest gently rise and fall and admired the peaceful look on his face, also partly obscured by a cloak. It was a test of will not to roll over and kiss him senseless, but Hawke refrained. He let his head fall back against the hay and closed his eyes.

He must have drifted off at some point because he was forcefully thrust back into consciousness when the cart shook violently, almost toppling over. The horse whinnied and bucked, clearly spooked by something. Anders had been startled awake as well and looked at him with wide eyes. They were still golden brown, not a trace of blue. That was a good sign, but instinct still drove them to grab hold of their staves and prepare for what they presumed to be trouble.

They sprang from the cover of the forest, clothed in drab robes and cloaks that cleverly concealed their identities. Hawke's head snapped to the left when he heard the driver cry out, just as one of the bandits pulled him off the saddle and to the ground while another circled him with a brandished knife. Three more flanked Anders's side of the cart, and two climbed over the edge on his. Snapping his leg out, he kicked one away and used the forward momentum to duck and roll off the cart to avoid an attack. As he rose, he swung up with his staff sharply, ignoring the pain snaking through the joint, and along the extremity. A loud, wooden thwack reverberated up through the body as the staff hit the cart rather than a body. The blow had glanced off his assailant, who slipped away far too gracefully just to be lucky timing.

A black shadow darted between his legs, too small to be a wolf, and too fast to be another assassin. Much as Hawke was curious, he had more important things to worry about, like his partner crashing right into him. One of the attackers had knocked Anders off balance and sent him stumbling. Luckily for him, Wyatt had much more solid footing and caught his partner by the arm and pulled him back in close.

Anders only had a second to utter his thanks before their unknown attackers were on them again in a much larger group. With their hands tightly clasped in the other's, they took up their staves once more. He could feel the familiar sensation coursing over both of them as Anders tapped into what was practically an endless reservoir of power granted to him by Justice. Where most mages had to pull from the realm beyond mortal existence, the spirit was something of a permanent link, like an open door to the Fade for him that.

Anders's healing aura fell over them like a protective net, and Hawke relished the restorative energies. He released his lover's hand so he could adequately lash out at two of the robed pursuits with his staff, catching one in the chest, knocking them aside, and swinging back down and around to catch another in the head. It was minimal work at best, but it sufficed as a defense long enough for his partner to hastily inscribe a glyph onto the ground and trigger the repulsion effect. It was far more effective at keeping the group at bay, who now had resigned themselves to dodging licks of fire and spears of ice from the two mages.

The same small black mass entered Hawke's field of view again as it springboarded off the heads and shoulders of the robed bandits, sending them into a frenzy trying to catch it. It landed on the ground in front of them, its shape becoming distinguishable as a black feline, interrupting their spellcasting and causing Anders to gasp in surprise.

"Wait-" he exclaimed, shortly before the cat was no more. It vanished with a pop, and displacement of air, leaving behind a small woman with a staff. Her sudden appearance was followed immediately by a sizeable murky cloud expelled outwards at their attackers.

"You-" She thrust her staff at Hawke without much explanation, and he briefly glimpsed the definitively pointed ears poking through her short brown hair. "Now!"

With little to go on but her shout, he drew deeper on his mana reserves, and with his off-hand, he willed the magic forth and gestured at the group. Like pulling an invisible rug out from beneath their feet, they stumbled and crashed into the dirt. However, before any of them could get their bearings, too busy coughing and sputtering from whatever had been in the cloud, they were lifted into the air as a squirming mass of limbs and subsequently pulled back down to earth violently. It was enough to render them incapacitated, and they made no further attempts to resume their attack.

Before anything else, Anders sought out the carriage driver, throwing himself immediately into healer mode. Fortunately, he was unharmed and found a convenient spot to cower in the bushes just nearby. Hawke trailed after, followed closely by the elf who had saved their hide.

"He'll be alright," Anders murmured as he finished inspecting the man who did not appear to be worried by the mage checking him over.

"Thank you, Serahs, I won't tell a soul. My eldest is a mage, and he is a good boy. Never harmed a fly. But I think for all our safety, this is as far as I go."

They exchanged more "thank you's" before sending him on his way, and it was Hawke's turn to play healer after giving his partner a complete once-over though his methods were not quite the same as he leaned in and kissed the other mage on his freshly bruised cheek. "I'm glad you're not seriously hurt." Wyatt brushed more dirt away from Anders's face, who grazed the top of his knuckles with a delicate kiss of his own.

"I'm more than fine. Thank you, love. I-" he stopped himself short, and an awkward silence fell between the pair.

It suddenly occurred to Hawke that their elven guest was circling him, though not quite in a predatory fashion. "I'm sorry, but have we met?"

"Surana!" Anders snatched the woman by the back of her cloak and lifted her clear off the ground. She squealed in protest and squirmed until he set her back down beside him. "What in the Maker's name are you doing here?"

Her dark eyes gleamed in the light of the sun, and a surprisingly wolfish grin split her small face that pulled all the freckles marking her cheeks into a tight cluster. "I was passing through and thought I recognized your big dumb face. Then I saw you needed a hand, so I figured I would help out. So, who's your friend?"

"Andraste, help me," he sighed, visibly exasperated. "Hawke, this is Nell Surana, Nell this is Hawke. Happy? Now, what are you _actually_ doing out here?"

Nell leaned on her staff rather casually now and seemed to study him from afar. Wyatt smiled back as introductions began, hoping to alleviate whatever suspicions she might have about him. She was undoubtedly an old friend of Anders, and he did not proclaim to have many of those, especially during his time in the Circle. He realized that anyone Anders considered to be a good friend was someone he did not want to cross. Much like the Hero of Ferelden herself.

"I was just passing through when I thought I spotted you. I'm sure you know how it is, Circles may have fallen, but we're still hunted just as much, if not more. Spent some time in the Hinterlands with the rebels, but then bam - a big green hole in the sky. That _Inquisition_ came through shortly after, and I was not about to stick around and hear their policy on apostates."

Hearing her say it aloud made Hawke's stomach turn. Every time he thought about heading to meet them, knots formed themselves out of his innards. If this Inquisitor was indeed his father, what would he think of his son's choices? His head swam with a myriad of questions that seemed impossible to ignore until they reached their destination, but Wyatt pushed them all aside long enough to address Nell. "I appreciate the help then. I would offer you to tag along, but I don't believe that's wise considering where we're going."

Her small face contorted once it seemed the realization hit. "Don't tell me you're going _to_ them? Anders, I knew you were nuts, but that's-"

Anders's frown said enough, but he still saw fit to put the young elf in her place. "Go home, Surana. Stay out of trouble, or at least don't let me hear about it."

"Fine fine. You-" Nell stood up straight, tucked her staff under her arm, and thrust a finger at Wyatt, who raised his hands defensively. "You look out for him, okay? He's the only family I have. So don't get him killed. Necromancy was never my strong point." With her head held high defiantly, Nell marched past the two of them, halfway disappearing into the woods before her prominent silhouette was no longer visible. The last thing they saw was the tip of a swishing feline tail before that too vanished in the brush.

Sighing, Anders looked around with uncertainty, the telltale show of defeat plain on his face. Wyatt knew that expression well and matched it with a more hopeful mood as he threw an arm around his lover's shoulders. "Shame, I never learned that dragon trick. I would have loved to have seen their faces."

"Very funny," Anders remarked though he wore the ghost of a smile, implying that he found it marginally humorous.

He turned his head to kiss the bridge of his partner's long nose. "I know, I'm hilarious. Come on, let's check this village and see what we can find. We still have a good amount of coin left, and someone is bound to be willing to help a couple of young, handsome travelers."

After everything else, that got Anders to laugh as they plodded off towards the village just up ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After finally making the trip to Skyhold, does Hawke's reunion with his father live up to his expectations?

It didn't matter what part of Thedas you found yourself in - the universal language was always the same. Coin. Sovereigns and silver still got them further than talk, which had never been a problem in Kirkwall after the expedition and his rise to nobility. The fugitive lifestyle didn't exactly come with a regular salary, so funds were quite limited. On rare occasions, however, they were fortunate to meet someone willing to trade whatever commodity for services rendered, usually resulting in Anders reprising his role as a healer and Hawke performing other tasks involving magic or just manual labor. 

Luck had it that this quaint village was gracious enough to their kind - mages - and welcomed them, quietly but no less enthusiastically. 

Ferelden was like that, Hawke recalled fondly. Despite all his family's efforts to hide while growing up, most common folk had no qualms with them being mages. Perhaps this was proof of the faith he had in his homeland. Or maybe - just maybe - it was the good influence of their King, a man Hawke had only met briefly. In their short visit, his majesty had made his feelings clear in no uncertain terms: he was no close friend of the Chantry.

With a few villagers cleared of their ailments and a new child delivered into this world, they had earned themselves a horse and plenty of provisions to last them the journey.

"Could we not have asked for a wagon? Even a small one?"

He heard Anders's protest, but Hawke chuckled low as he finished adjusting the saddle and gave the horse a gentle pat-down. "Nevermind him. You may not be small, covered in fur, and have claws, but you're still a good girl."

There was a snort from behind him. "Joke, all you like. Cats don't buck and throw you from their backs."

"That's because you can't _ride_ cats, Anders." Wyatt threw his arm around the other mage with laughter on his lips. "Come on; she won't bite."

It took only a gentle coaxing to convince him to mount the horse, with some assistance, before Hawke joined him as the lead rider not a moment later. Anders slipped his arms around Wyatt, who leaned a little into the unintentional embrace. "I could get used to this."

"Now you're just cheeky," Anders scolded playfully, despite holding a little tighter.

"And yet you love it." Their banter was surface-level teasing, but for Hawke, it was a sufficient distraction from the butterflies in his stomach, and the familiar weight against his back was reassurance.

"I love _you_ ," Anders mumbled quietly, resting his head against him. "Are you sure about this?" The mage's voice was muffled but audible. 

It wasn't a question Wyatt felt confident in answering, but he couldn't leave it. "I love you too," was his response, rather than yes or no. He was grateful for Anders's soft hum in understanding. There was no right answer, at least nothing that could adequately express just how he was feeling about this journey.

Snow, freezing temperatures, blistering winds delivering nothing but cold air; needless to say, winter wasn't Hawke's favorite season. He already longed for the sweltering sun hanging overhead and the warm rays against his back as he worked the fields. He was much more fond of warmer weather and didn't find enjoyment in wearing layers upon layers as there was often no middle ground between potential frostbite and sweating profusely. Alright, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but his naturally hot core temperature always made it uncomfortable. He drew the hood of his cloak further over his head to keep the falling flakes from hitting him and made a sound that got Anders's attention.

"Are you _pouting_?" There was a touch of merriment in his tone. 

Wyatt's breath came out in puffs as he laughed, unable to contain it. "Yes, I am, thank you. When I said I wanted to visit the mountains someday, this is not what I meant." 

Behind him, Anders grew quiet again. He offered no witty retort or objective response whatsoever. The furrow in his brow and rigidity of his posture spoke more to his apprehension than anything he could say. 

Despite the arduous journey, having someone to share it with, someone who could provide conversation and pleasant company made it bearable. Since the first leg of the trip, they were both caught in a state between optimistically hopeful and fretful. Wyatt had every right to be nervous, of course. Walking into the metaphorical lion's den was a mostly unknown fate for either of them, but Varric had written to them expressing a great need for his aid on behalf of the Inquisition, and he was not one to turn down a friend. They set off, even knowing what could easily await them upon their arrival.

"Thank you," Hawke whispered, reaching for Anders' hand. Fingers twitched before they laced in his. "I won't let them lay a hand on you."

"I know." Anders squeezed his hand before letting go, all without taking his eyes off the portcullis as they approached. 

To say that Skyhold was impressive did not fully encapsulate just how incredible the sprawling expanse was. The two mages sucked in a breath at the sheer size of the stronghold. Hawke had only seen unnecessary opulence in Kirkwall, and the Denerim palace back in Ferelden was humbly small by comparison. Fortified stone walls wrapped around the side of a mountain to contain the entire compound. 

It was Hawke who whistled sharply, ducking his head as the gate lifted.

"Maybe I should stay out of sight for now," he heard Anders murmur. "I will find you after. If it's safe."

A knot formed in his chest at the very thought of him not being right within arm's reach should anything happen, but he couldn't deny that the logic was sound. He didn't want to respond, thinking that maybe if he pretended not to hear it, Anders would forget the idea. When a familiar stout form came marching down the steps towards them, that knot grew in size. Varric's letter had been very clear about coming alone. 

"Alright." He finally conceded. "Just please be careful. Both of you." As much as he wanted to turn and grab Anders into an embrace, to kiss him and send him on his way, Wyatt couldn't look away from Varric as he approached, so he let his partner slip away without fuss.

_The Inquisition, Varric? Really?_

That had been the first surprise, hearing about its formation and his friend working with them. His second surprise had been hearing of Corypheus' return. It was news neither he nor Anders ever expected, and the very notion raised Wyatt's hackles. He was so sure that they had killed Corypheus - seen his corpse on the floor of his tomb and walked out of that warden-made prison confident he would never be a bother again. To say Hawke was angry and confused was to belittle the true depths of his feelings.

"Hawke! You made it in one piece, huh?"

However, the only thing to eclipse the news of Corypheus was that surrounding the Inquisitor himself.

_Could it actually be him?_

While he didn't have to force a smile, since it was genuinely good to reunite with his old friend, the butterflies in his stomach weren't about to grant him any mercy. "Fairly certain. Good to see you, Varric." They fell into step with each other, almost instinctively.

"Nugshit." The dwarf cursed when he finally saw the retreating cloaked figure. "You brought Blondie, didn't you? I should have figured you would but, Maker's ass, you could have warned me!"

Against _his_ better judgment or both of theirs, he flagrantly defied the letter's request to leave Anders behind. It wasn't fair to make him sit at home and wait with bated breath to hear a scrap of news while he waged war against an enemy they both thought already defeated. Hawke couldn't bear the thought of leaving the man he loved to worry himself into an early grave. Varric could be angry with him later and be grateful that he brought one of the best-damned healers across Thedas with him, first.

"You know why I did it. He promised to keep a low profile. Besides, if this _Inquisitor_ is who he says he is, everything should be fine. A little awkward probably, but I don't expect a man to give his own son trouble."

Varric cursed almost inaudibly under his breath a few more times, before releasing his apprehension in a long sigh. "I sure hope you're right, Hawke. For both your sakes and mine."

He wondered as he climbed each stone step, could anyone else hear his pounding heart? It was so loud in his ears, Wyatt was sure someone could, if not Varric. Yet not a single soul looked his way as he crossed the battlements. Varric had since stopped talking once he realized his friend wasn't paying attention.

Once Wyatt reached the landing, standing there observing everything was his reflection in almost all but name. Underneath a mop of dark red hair was a familiar time-worn face with kind brown eyes. Though his equal in height, this would-be Inquisitor, Wyatt was positive that he outmatched the man in sheer brawn. If anything, his wiry frame was not too unlike Anders' but perhaps with a little more muscle. His father had run the gambit of occupations in his life, from Circle mage to mercenary turned farmer. Time had taken much of his unbridled and wild-eyed youth that Wyatt recalled fondly from summer days under the hot Fereldan sun. Yet past the crows' feet and the laugh lines was the man who had taught him much: about life, about magic, and so much more.

There were too many thoughts swirling around in Hawke's mind, that focusing on any one thing or feeling was challenging. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, but there was no sense of tension between them. The silence hanging in the air wasn't charged or suffocating; it was simply awkward.

"I think I'll let you two spend some time playing catch up," Varric spoke up, startling them both. "I promised Tiny a drink after that last game of cards. Feel free to join us when you're done." Before either of them could protest, the dwarf had made himself scarce.

And then there were two.

Tongue-tied and dumbfounded, his mouth could not form the right words, finding them strange and clunky.

"Wow," Malcolm breathed, looking him over from tip to toe. He hesitated only a second before crossing the gap. "Look at you." His face softened from the stony and informal expression he wore initially, to something else entirely. Creasing formed at the corners of his eyes, now glassy with the hint of tears as his father reached out to inspect him closer. "This whole _Champion_ thing suits you," he said with a proud smile, giving his hair a gentle ruffle.

A knot formed in Hawke's throat that threatened to choke him, but he didn't bother fighting the urge and threw his arms around his double. Malcolm exhaled suddenly with the wind squeezed out of him, but still eagerly returned the embrace. "Maker's ass, I can't believe you're here. I've missed you so much." 

"Aye, Kiddo. I've missed you as well. More than you know."

Father and son parted, and just like that, the tearful, happy reunion was over. Wyatt saw the way his father looked at him, questions primed and ready, sitting on the tip of his tongue most likely. It was evident in his eyes, from the knot between his brows, from the half-curl of his mouth. Though years had passed, he could still read his father like a book. He knew because he was just as transparent, something that they shared. Guilt coiled itself tightly around his heart like a serpent squeezing its prey. Wyatt grimaced as he looked away from the man in front of him. "I'm sorry. I failed you. I failed the family. I couldn't protect them like I was supposed to-"

"Don't." Malcolm's tone was stern, but not at all lacking in warmth. "Don't do that. You did as much as you could, and that is all I ever asked. I would never blame you for what happened. Maker willing, I will see them again someday." His father's hand came to rest on his shoulder as they stood, leaning against the parapets that overlooked the courtyard. 

Being absolved of all blame did nothing for the gnashing sensation in his gut, no matter how honeyed the words. There was more to his anxiety than just the loss of Mother and Bethany weighing on him. It was knowing that Varric had not gone for drinks, but to check in on Anders - someone his father was sure to have heard plenty about in his brief stint as Inquisitor. Surely none of it was favorable, but would he make judgments once he knew the truth? Maybe. _Hopefully_.

"Carver didn't believe me at first. I didn't either when I got Varric's letter, honestly."

Malcolm hummed and hawed for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to say next, not that Wyatt knew how to fill the air either. They both sighed mistakenly in unison and chuckled at the realization. There was a grin pulling at the corners of his father's lips that he was visibly fighting against. "I was hoping to spend some time with you, to make up for lost years before we had to address the elephant in the room, but-"

"But that elephant is rather large, and someone should probably stop it before it goes on a rampage?"

"Yes, I suppose you're right." When Malcolm laughed this time, it was large, warm, and robust. It was the laughter he knew only from memory and had kept close to heart for years. If Wyatt had any lingering doubt, that sound was enough to vanquish it entirely. There was so much to discuss. There were too many things to bring his father up to speed on, but it would all wait. A hush fell over the battlements, hanging perilously between them. He searched for anything to break it and chase away the awkward, but not without being disingenuous.

"Varric told me what you did. What happened with Corypheus." His father's voice lacked it's earlier friendly candor and had taken on an edge Wyatt had only been privy to via second-hand experience. Down in the depths. In that Warden-made prison for a creature who now threatened and terrorized the people of Thedas once again. Surely there was some mad irony to be found in this whole situation, with him being the one to spring the bastard from his father's very bonds to start. Varric had yet to offer his commentary on it, but perhaps he was savoring it, waiting for a more appropriate moment.

He met his father's eyes finally, finding them inquisitive versus criticizing. "He did, did he?" 

"Indeed. So how does one put the genie back in the bottle?"

Wyatt balked. "You're asking _me_? You're the one who cut his palms to keep him there in the first place, aren't you?" Regret was acid on his tongue immediately as the words left his lips. _Shit._

A knot formed between Malcolm's brows as they creased. "You lay judgment at _my_ feet for what I was pressed into doing, yet you leave ash and ruin in your wake from the city, _Champion_."

"You weren't there. You don't know what it was like-"

"Boy, I lived in that Maker-forsaken place for well half my life. I knew plenty. What were you thinking? I raised you better-"

Face aflame, the heat kindling in his chest settled in his throat, and the words burned a hole through him. "You _raised me_ to stand up for others, especially those with less, or those who can't speak for themselves. Wasn't it you who said that even as an apostate, I shouldn't be afraid to speak up? I only did what you taught us." That they were even having this argument was a hard lump, difficult to swallow but not impossible. They'd had this discussion already, only a thousand times in his head. One of the thousand different outcomes had gone something like this, but Hawke was still bare-faced in the wake of reality and woefully unprepared.

Setting his jaw, Malcolm folded his arms over his broad chest. "Is this you telling me you have no regrets over what happened then?"

"The only thing I _regret_ is not seeing it done sooner. Then maybe Mother would still be here. Maybe Carver wouldn't resent me for throwing him to the Wardens. Or-"

"Wyatt!" Malcolm barked as his anger flared. Still wearing a deep frown that touched his dark eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. Silence fell only briefly before he spoke again, with a much softer tone. "Please, son. I don't wish to quarrel."

It was Wyatt's turn to frown now. His lips twisted into a tight scowl as he relinquished the fierce grip he had on the parapets and turned down the other side of the battlements. "Bit late for that, I'm afraid." In his chest, his heart thudded in time with every step - an unfortunate reflection of his arrival. Frantic steps behind him on the way down didn't make him stop. He didn't turn around to look at the harried expression his father wore; he kept his head up and carried on towards the courtyard.

"Where are you going?"

_Home._ He thought, but Hawke chose not to answer, defiantly keeping his eyes forward and his pace brisk. _You can solve your own problems._ The thoughts in his head were bitter barbs that only stung him instead of the intended recipient. He didn't want this either. The last thing he came for was a row, rather than the happy reunion he'd imagined. "Somewhere not here," he spat, finally.

"Now, just wait a minute!"

A near collision-course with another body was the only thing to slow him down. If he hadn't seen Anders, he might have easily bowled him over without a second thought, but as it was, he simply scrambled to slip past and keep walking. Anders grabbed hold of his arm, preventing him from getting far. "What's going on? Are you alright?"

"I tried to stop him, Hawke," Varric muttered between heavy breaths. "But, you know how Blondie gets."

Instead of directly addressing the dwarf, Anders cast his eyes on Wyatt and then to the man overlooking them from his place on the battlements. Malcolm had not come down much further than the top of the steps. "I heard shouting as I was leaving the tavern, and I was concerned."

Seeing Anders' expression did nothing for the ache in his chest or the fire in his lungs after the argument. Hawke closed his hand around his partner's. "Don't worry about it. Come on." He couldn't just leave, not really, and not after coming all this way. However, he could put as much distance between them and his father as possible while he cleared his head. Emotions were running high, and the long journey here was starting to catch up with him. Better to leave it for later. 

Anders was wise enough not to press, not here at least. He wordlessly let himself be pulled into a half-embrace as they trotted off towards the tavern in question. Varric shook his head and didn't immediately follow them. Instead, he muttered something inaudible to Malcolm, who had descended the stairs finally. Wyatt didn't bother to stop and find out what it was.

He knew nothing of the pub's atmosphere or the community within, not like he'd known the Hanged Man. Kirkwall had been one disaster after another, a festering infection in the form of a city-state, but it hadn't all been miserable. Little outcroppings made themselves home in his memory, and most often, they were the times spent with everyone else in the tavern. The transition from the white-hot light of the afternoon sun to a room bathed in the amber glow of a roaring hearth and lit lanterns was not an unfamiliar one. For a moment, Hawke was overcome by the instinct to greet Corff behind the bar or Norah as she breezed by with frothing mugs. Yet it passed as quickly as it had come upon him.

"I'm sorry." Anders' voice was a welcome contrast to the harsh drone of the tavern ambiance. 

They stole away a table in the far corner where they wouldn't be bothered, sitting one next to the other. "For what," Hawke asked, letting himself lean against Anders, who accommodated, bracing himself to support the weight. Their hands found each other again, with fingers intertwining neatly.

"By your face, I think it's easy to assume the conversation didn't go so well. I know he's your father and it can't be easy. So for that, I'm sorry."

Despite the melancholy that surfaced now, Hawke still found the heart to smile at him. "Don't be. I'm fine."

After a second pass across the tavern, he realized the dwarf serving up drinks at the head of the room was a stranger, as were all the patrons within. Isabela wasn't perched at the counter, daring any man who approached to outdrink her and Varric was still outside, likely trying to convince his father that things would be just peachy, given time.

This wasn't Kirkwall. Nor was it home. Hawke didn't know what it was, but he had already overstayed his welcome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worried that he upset his son, and has unintentionally done more harm than good to their relationship, Malcolm tries to come to terms with a few things. The first being that his son is not a child anymore and the other is a certain rebel mage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in Malcolm's POV. FYI.

Well. Now that he had spectacularly bungled things, what else was there left to do in the day but throw himself from the battlements in hopes of forgetting this whole incident? Malcolm swore low under his breath, only ceasing to look at Varric as he found his way back. The dwarf had been nothing short of insightful in the past, especially when discussing his son. To know how deep their friendship ran was an odd comfort, but it meant that if anyone could help Malcolm come to terms with things, it was him.

"A scowl doesn't suit you, Red."

Exhaling slowly, Malcolm palmed his face and carefully lowered himself to sit on the steps. "I haven't seen my boy in, Maker, ten years? Twelve?"

"Fourteen, but who's counting, right?" Varric chuckled and leaned against the stone wall, facing the east tower.

"You, apparently," Malcolm snarked in retaliation, but the dwarf wasn't bothered. "Why is it that the first thing I do is yell at him and throw my mistakes in his face? Maker's breath. Leave it to me to step all over any goodwill that boy brought with him.

Fourteen years? Had it indeed been so long already? 

Varric somehow still found a reason to smile, in his usual sly manner, of course. Didn't help that his gut was twisting itself into tiny little knots over and over again. "I'd tell you both to work it out over drinks, but I think Matches needs some time alone."

If only ale and a round of cards could mend these broken fences, fences he smashed with his disappearing act years ago. _If only he could remember what the bloody hell happened._ That was an entirely different beast, and Malcolm did not know how he would even begin to tackle it. Not when the more pressing matter was that Blighter Corypheus. 

"Listen, Red, the first thing you gotta do is stop thinking of him as a kid."

Easier said than done. Varric was right, of course. He knew it; Wyatt probably knew it and likely resented him for it. If anything had damaged their relationship, it would be that. Still, he could not fully reconcile the idea of his secrets now laid bare for his sons to know, ones that he had initially assumed buried with that monster.

His mind drifted off now, to an old memory.

_"I'm tellin ya Mal, my gut is saying boy. It's just one of those things, you know?" Bronte was a good man, perhaps the only other person Malcolm trusted with the knowledge that he was a mage. His wife, currently upstairs with Leandra mid-labor, was the other._

_He was grateful for their help, especially Mirium's, for seeing to it that Leandra had a safe and smooth delivery. It was still so surreal to think that he was going to be a father. "I would be pleased with either, as long as my child is strong and healthy … but I'll eat my hat if it isn't a little girl." The conversation kept his mind busy, while the whittle and block of wood in his lap occupied his hands, anything to keep his nerves from fraying any further._

_"You don't wear hats!"_

_"Well, this was a bet built on sand, then," Malcolm and Bronte both erupted into laughter until the wailing cries of an infant cut through, filling the house. Heart leaping into his throat, Malcolm quickly stood up, and Bronte was soon to follow, practically bounding up the steps. He found Miriam in the doorway beaming, and Leandra -_

_"Oh, Malcolm. Look at this," She cooed at the small, carefully wrapped bundle. Already he could see the love and adoration in her tired blue eyes. Leandra adjusted her position to give him a better view of their child, who's round and tanned face seemed so peaceful. Malcolm felt his chest constrict, not out of fear but anticipation. "Isn't he just perfect?"_

_He. A son. Well, Maker-be-damned. He almost laughed at the notion that Bronte had guessed right. Not that it mattered any._

_"And a redhead, just like his father." Miriam proudly remarked from where she stood at the washbasin._

_Malcolm gently brushed his palm over the infant's head, letting the soft strands do what they will. "And so it seems..." His thoughts trailed off while he fixated on his newborn son, squirming and reaching for his mother already._

_"What about Garrett?"_

_"Hm?" He almost hadn't heard her._

_"For a name. I know you had your heart set on Marian, but Garrett is a good name for a boy."_

_"Aye, a good strong Fereldan name, if you ask me," Bronte interjected._

_Yet it didn't sit right with him. No. The longer Malcolm stared at the tiny, red-faced infant even as he started to cry for his first meal, the more he ran through a slew of names, and every time he would come back to one - "Wyatt."_

How could he stop thinking of his boy - his son - as the little bundle his dear sweet Leandra had brought into this world so many years ago? Of course, Malcolm would never stop being his father but - 

He sighed again, a long drawn out exhale that made his shoulders slump, and then he climbed to his feet.

Varric straightened abruptly. "Now Red, I wouldn't-"

"I need to apologize. That last thing I want is for my son to resent me."

The dwarf practically sprinted after him, best he could with those short legs of his anyway. Malcolm's stride far outmatched his, so he slowed his gait to allow Varric a chance to catch up and match his cadence. "Why so squirrelly all of a sudden, Varric?" Indeed, the rogue was never quite so jittery. More often than not, he was the most composed of anyone around. Yet there was a furrow in his brow that wasn't there before.

With a sigh, Varric stopped mid-stride, not bothering to keep up any longer. "You know what, don't even worry about it. Was going to happen at some point. Just - don't do anything I wouldn't do."

They crossed the courtyard by now, stopping in front of the Herald's Rest entrance while Malcolm spared a minute to gather his composure. He sucked in a deep breath through flared nostrils and gathered his wits. It wasn't that Malcolm was unused to apologizing, but this felt somehow more daunting than facing Corypheus and his blighted dragon. Finally, he pushed the door open, and it gave way. Most of the crowd barely registered his presence; few raised their glasses in respect, and Cabot at the bar nodded his head. Once his eyes adjusted to the change in lighting, Malcolm scouted the tavern's first floor for his son.

To his advantage, Wyatt was relatively easy to pick out of a crowd. He still couldn't believe just how much his boy had taken after him, and not just physically. It was perhaps part of why he had gotten so angry back there on the ramparts. 

In the far eastern corner of the room, his son sat alone at a table with a look on his face that said all Malcolm needed to know - he'd disappointed him. Braver than before he walked in, Malcolm barely greeted those who clamored for his attention and kept his sights on his son, walking with a sense of purpose. In his head, he ran through a chaotic stream of thoughts, trying to piece together the right thing to say and find common ground he knew they shared.

Before he could take another step, a cloaked figure approached the table with two tankards in hand. While not necessarily unusual, the sight still made him pause. As soon as the tall figure settled in the chair opposite Wyatt, he drew back the hood of his cloak. Straw-blonde hair fell over the man's shoulder in a loose ponytail. His face was narrow and shadowed by week-old stubble. He was not immediately recognizable as someone Malcolm ever met in his lifetime. Yet he didn't need to have met him to realize the man who reached across the table to grab his son's hand was the apostate responsible for the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry. Slack-jawed and tongue-tied, his legs refused to obey his command and bring him in closer. So he watched as Wyatt reciprocated the gesture of affection with both hands. Malcolm had difficulty dredging anger or concern over this union. Not as he saw them exchange a rather tender kiss and looks of adoration. Mal knew of their relationship, of course. He'd not only read Varric's book, his "Tale of the Champion," but made the dwarf bring him up to speed personally. Yet seeing them together, here, ultimately came as a surprise. Kirkwall had only been his "home" insofar as his time spent in the Circle, in the Gallows, so he didn't have a significant attachment to the city. Nor did he possess much love for the Chantry either, but still. 

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Malcolm drew in a steadying breath and quickly considered his options. Making a scene would only inevitably damage his relationship with his son further, but he couldn't just act as if nothing had ever happened. He was still the Inquisitor, for whatever good that did him right now.

_Oh Maker's hairy arse, Mal, suck it up and talk to them._

Easier said than done. Two, no three heartbeats later, he took a few steps forward and almost on a hair-trigger, Wyatt stood up from his seat abruptly upon realizing Malcolm's approach.

Panic and fierce defiance steeled his jaw and made Wyatt stand in front of the table as a barricade between Malcolm and Anders. Frustration bubbled up from his chest, and prepared a retort, but a second look at his son made the words die on his lips. Past the contempt was the slightest tremble in the younger mage's fist and eyes that were fearful and glassy. Like someone further twisted the proverbial knife in his heart, Malcolm scowled, and his shoulders slumped as defeat overcame him. Any non-peaceful course of action was doomed to result in an awkward scene, ultimately destroying any trust between them.

"I only wish to talk," he said finally, raising his hand in a white flag surrender.

Though his hackles were still high, he saw some of the tension eke out of Wyatt's stiff frame. Rightfully so, Malcolm figured. He hadn't given the boy much reason to drop his guard yet, but he hoped they might reach that bridge by the day's end. 

"So talk." The clipped words were few, but they still had an impact.

"Not here." He motioned to the stairs leading to the upper levels of the tavern. "Please," Malcolm added with as much sincerity as he could muster before venturing up the steps. The second floor was still too crowded, but the third was always quiet, usually only occupied by one other person. The sound of steps behind him confirmed that the two men were following. Good. 

None of them spoke a word on the way up, and silence remained once they reached the landing of the tavern's top-most floor. Malcolm swept the room for signs of life; Cole was graciously not within line of sight. On any other given day, he welcomed the young man's company where others found him unsettling at best, but this was hardly the time or place. 

His son immediately put distance between them as he stood with a guarded posture close to his companion. Malcolm sighed, already knowing the direction their conversation would take. "I'm not going to arrest him. Or you. So you can relax, son."

You're not?" They both asked, in oddly harmonic unison. Wyatt's whole demeanor changed dramatically, from defensive to puzzled. His friend - Anders - appeared to be reluctant but just as perplexed by the bold statement.

Malcolm's palm found his face, and he groaned, frustration mounting by the second as he struggled to find the words. "Maker, _no_. Look, I can see," he pauses, eyes darting between the two men. "I can see that you're _fond_ of each other-"

"That's one way to put it." 

He ignored Wyatt's snark for the moment. "The last thing I want is bad blood between my son and me, regardless of my feelings on what happened in Kirkwall--"

_"Gone. You were gone, and I was alone. Alone, lost, languishing in your legacy. What do I do now? How do I fill your shoes? How do I make these choices?"_

It was one thing to think it, but another to hear it - and from another voice that was not his son's. Malcolm stiffened and avoided Wyatt's eyes while searching for the voice source, knowing full well what he expected to find.

"What was that?" Both Wyatt and Anders were effectively startled, eyes darting around the room to find the source of the as-of-yet disembodied voice. Malcolm knew better. "That would be-"

_"Family would never hurt Family. But the fear is still there, tight turbulent terror coiled within. Please don't take him from me."_

He pinched the bridge of his nose and grunted, "I already said-"

The voice had more to say, it seemed and rattled off another string of words, phrases, and vaguely prophetic musings. _"They were supposed to read it. Years of patience, my soul, anger - all of it in this. If they read it, they'll understand. If they read it, things will change. If they read it, peace will be an option."_

Malcolm turned to face the air and reached out, grabbing onto anything he could. "Come on out, Cole." He found purchase on the boy's arm, just as he made himself visible to all parties and allowed himself to enter realspace fully. 

The gaunt, ghostly young man pulled away reluctantly though he titled his head, his expression was all but-unreadable beneath his wide-brim hat. "You're angry. Anger does not solve anything. Builds nothing, but it can destroy everything." 

"Cole…no. I'm _not_ angry. I _am_ trying to have a private conversation, however." 

"I only want to help. Justice wants to help too. The songs sing differently on this side of the veil. You miss it, sometimes, but you can do so much here."

It was too late to stop the floodgates now, Malcolm realized, without raising his voice to chase the boy away and potentially cause more harm than good. He watched his son's defensive posture return and saw as he stepped out in front of his companion before Anders himself spoke up. "You-" he pointed at Cole, and Malcolm still observed. "You're a spirit?"

"It's different."

"I beg your pardon?" 

"What I am. It's different. Cole. Compassion. Both but neither. There's too much to be the same. So I am different."

The boy paused, and silence fell for a moment, leaving Malcolm on edge while he watched the two - Anders and Cole - regard each other with interest and caution, respectively.

Eventually, Cole resumed his introspection. He tilted his head to the side as if to get a look at the mage from another angle. "Have you tried accepting more than his anger? There is more to have."

Anders's face goes through a carousel of emotions, from guarded, spooked even, to somber with soft and glassy eyes. "You said your name was Cole? Thank you. I appreciate it. Perhaps we could speak later? I think my _friend_ would like that too if that's alright?"

"That would be nice. Yes." Cole stood up a little straighter, giving Malcolm a better view of the curious smile on his face before walking away normally instead of vanishing in plain sight.

Like father, like son, Wyatt had watched the display without comment and only just now approached Anders with concern all across his face. He observed them quietly while they whispered amongst themselves, sharing soft smiles and gentle gazes. They were something else. Malcolm's brows furrowed, and his chest ached. 

_Leandra, my heart, what would you have me do?_

After a moment spent in his head, Malcolm cleared his throat and approached the two men, but fixed his attention on Anders primarily. They both stiffened at his approach, but he kept his shoulders low and his face neutral. "While I can't say I fully understand what was going on in Kirkwall, that it drove you to such lengths; I can't in good faith render any judgment without being taken to task myself. I know what I did down there for the Wardens. I would have done anything to protect my wife and son."

Despite his words, or perhaps because of them, the tension in the air was palpable, thick enough that even the sharpest blade couldn't pierce. His son stood there, uncertain and looking back and forth between him and his companion as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Mal understood that feeling.

"Then we understand one another? Are we in agreement that we were both backed into a corner and did what we had to? For the good of those around us?" To be quite frank, he hadn't expected the blonde mage to speak up, but sure enough, there was that brazen boldness he'd heard so much about from numerous sources. Malcolm found himself impressed and even a little bit amused. Although he was honest, he almost felt like he was talking to himself in a strange twist of fate. There were certain qualities in the man that Mal recognized as ones he possessed, insofar as he could tell in this short conversation and based on past discussions with Varric.

Malcolm leveled his gaze on Anders without saying anything for a moment, but eventually, a sideways smile cracked his weathered face. "I like this one," he said, speaking to his son without looking at him. "He has spirit." 

Wyatt made a noise low in his throat, something akin to a laugh or a nervous chuckle, but averted his eyes when Malcolm tried to meet them. Ignoring it for now, he offered a hand to the renegade mage as a show of peace. Anders accepted the shake, albeit reluctantly, but he did shake. "You are safe here at Skyhold. If you wish to remain anonymous during your stay, I will make sure it remains that way, but don't feel like you have to hide. No harm shall come to you while under my roof...and while my son cares for you."

The uneasy expression on the man's face remained. Mal supposed he shouldn't blame him for the uncertainty, though he meant every word. 

Even if all he got from the mage was a resolute nod, it was enough.

He nodded in return before turning away from them to head back down the stairs, granting them the privacy he felt they deserved. Malcolm knew he would have to keep this quiet, or the common public would rally at the desire for a public trial, to take the renegade apostate to task for what he had done. _Politics_. He never had a mind for them, personally - though Leandra had tried her best to encourage him from time to time. It was a messy business, no place for an apostate to stick his nose, that’s for sure. However, these days he hardly had the luxury of staying out of said politics, and in fact, was more like at the very epicenter of it all.

Funny how that worked out.


End file.
